"Everybody would be a man if they could!" cried Peggy, throwing grammar to the winds, as she was apt to do when excited.
"No, indeed, everybody would not!" cried Margaret, her soft eyes lighting up. "Nothing would induce me to be a man."
"I don't think you would make a very good one, to be sure!" said Peggy, looking affectionately at her cousin. "But I bet—I mean wager—you told me I might say 'wager,' Margaret!—that none of the other girls would hesitate a minute if they had the chance. I wouldn't! Think of it! No petticoats, no fuss, no having to remember to do this, and not to do that; and no hairpins, or gloves, or best hats—"
"Ah!" said Bell; "that is only the smallest part, Peggy. I don't mind the hairpin part—though of course it is a joy to get out here and dispense with them—but still, that is only a trifle. The thing I think about is the freedom, the strength, the power to go right ahead and do things!" and, as she spoke, Bell threw her head back and stretched her arms abroad with a vigorous gesture. "Of course we girls are all well and strong, but it isn't the same strength as a man's. We are constantly running up against things we cannot, ought not to do. I do envy the boys, I cannot help it."
"Yes!" cried Margaret, leaning forward, a soft flush rising to her cheeks. "I know—it is glorious to see them; but, Bell, isn't the very weakness part of our strength? Isn't it just because women know the—the things they cannot do, that they are able to understand and sympathize, and—and help, in ways that men cannot, because they do not know?"
"I think Margaret is right!" said Gertrude, slowly. "And besides, there is strength and strength, Bell. For long endurance of pain or hardship, the woman will outlast the man nine times out of ten, I believe; and I heard Doctor Strong say once that women would often bear pain quietly that would set a man raving. Yes, I come over to your side, May Margaret. I would take Joan of Arc, if it were not for the stake. Let me see—oh, I know! I will be Grace Darling."
"Who was she?" asked Kitty.
"The lighthouse-keeper's daughter, at Longstone, off the Yorkshire coast. A ship, the Forfarshire, was wrecked on the rocks near by, and there seemed no chance of saving any of the crew; but Grace persuaded her father to try, and just those two rowed out, in a most terrible storm, to the reef on which the vessel had been wrecked, and saved the nine men, all that were left out of sixty-three, who were clinging to the rocks, waiting for death. Why wasn't that just as fine as commanding an army, or even leading a forlorn hope in battle? Then there was dear Margaret Roper—I think she is the one for you, May Margaret!—and Cochrane's Bonny Grizzy, and—oh, ever and ever so many of them. Yes, I take up my stand once and for all on my own side."
"Well!" said Bell, shaking her head. "I hear what you say, Betsy, but it makes no difference,—does it, Peggy?—though I admit the force of your remarks."
"Not a bit!" said Peggy. "I wouldn't have been Mrs. La Salle for a farm."